Identity
by Sara Wolfe
Summary: Maybe he could learn to be who he used to be.


**Author's Note:** So, this completely crazy idea was spawned after I saw the premiere and read a request for clex_monkie89 for the LJ Fall Fandom Free For All. Much as I disliked the movies, I loved Chris O'Donnell's Dick Grayson.

**Identity**

He'd been lying when he told Hetty that he didn't know what the G stood for.

Okay, not completely lying; when he'd woken up in the hospital covered in burns and knife marks, the doctors hadn't known who he was. Slapped a John Doe label on him and went on their way. Later, as he'd started to remember on his own, he hadn't wanted to reclaim the person he'd been. Wanted to just start over fresh, somewhere where no one knew him. Everyone thought that little Dick was dead, after all; why not make it official?

And moving on really had been for the best. It wasn't like there was anything chaining him to Gotham anymore. Bruce had lost himself in his quest for vengeance; his obsession, really. It had consumed the older man, turned him hard and cold. Not even Alfred, who'd been like a father to them both, had been able to reach him. Babs, on the other hand, had turned inward. Shut herself in her apartment and refused to speak to any of them. Not that he could blame her; it was his fault she'd gotten hurt, had almost died at the Joker's hands. His fault for not being strong enough, fast enough, good enough to protect the woman who'd been like a little sister to him.

He hadn't been able to completely give up on who he'd once been, though. That was where the G came from. He'd created a new identity, a new background, but kept enough of the old to remind himself of the mistakes he couldn't afford to make again. And then he'd walked away. Clipped the Robin's wings and tied himself to the world on the ground.

He was a damn good cop; that much he knew. It was the one good thing people could agree on. No matter what his faults, he was a damn good cop. Some days, it felt like it was the only thing he had going for him.

"Agent Callen!"

G jerked himself out of his thoughts to look guiltily up at Hetty, who was staring at him disapprovingly, her arms crossed and a frown firmly fixed on her face. He pasted a charming smile on his face, hoping to worm his way out of whatever trouble he was about to land in, but she clearly wasn't buying it.

"Have you heard a word I've been saying?" she demanded, and G looked pleadingly over at Sam, hoping for a reprieve.

His partner just shook his head, amusement at his situation plain on his face. There'd be no bailing out from that corner, then.

"Um," he muttered, trying to stall for time.

He really hadn't heard anything the older woman had said, and she knew it. Now, she was just watching him squirm.

"Um," he tried again, but she only tapped her foot, impatiently, silently waiting. "Not really," he admitted, finally.

"I still haven't received your paperwork from the last case you and Agent Hanna worked on," Hetty repeated.

"I'm working on that right now," G lied, quickly, and a skeptical look crossed the woman's face.

"Really," she said, and he flinched at the tone in her voice.

"Really," he echoed, weakly, digging himself in deeper and deeper.

"So, those reports will be on my desk at the end of the hour, then?" Hetty asked pointedly, looking at her watch, and he winced when he saw that he barely had half an hour to complete the paperwork she was talking about.

"I'll enjoy reading your report," Hetty continued, not giving him a chance to say anything before she turned and walked away.

G groaned, dropping his head into his hands as Sam burst into laughter across the room.

"Well, I'm glad you find this funny," G said, sarcastically.

"Hey, if you'd just do the paperwork when you're supposed to," Sam began, and then trailed off at the sight of someone standing in the doorway of the office. "Can I help you?"

The figure moved forward slowly, leaning heavily on a cane for support, but the man was unmistakable as he came into the light, and G felt his breath catch in his throat at the sight.

"Took you long enough," was all he said, and Bruce gave him a small, wry smile as he came to a stop in front of his desk.

"I had some other things on my mind," came the answer. "But they're handled, now."

"Handled?" G echoed, remembering the darker side of Bruce that he'd seen during the Joker's rampage on Gotham. "Handled how?"

"Just handled," Bruce replied, shortly, and G knew that was as much of an answer as he was going to get.

"Why are you here, Bruce?" he asked, instead.

"I thought that'd be obvious," Bruce told him. "I'm here to bring you home."

G's first, instinctive answer was that Gotham wasn't his home, anymore. Hadn't been for a long time. And there hadn't been any place since he'd cared about enough to call home. Except…

He looked around the NCIS office, taking in the people around him for maybe the first time. Hetty, in her office, poring over Sam's report of the kidnapping. Who'd never even considered replacing him on the team, even when it looked like he was never coming back. Sam, at his desk pretending to work while he kept sneaking glances over at G's desk, listening in on his conversation. Sam, who'd been by him every step of the way for four months, always ready with a joke to make him smile through the pain. Then there was Doc, who'd argued with Director Vance to let him back in the field, trusting that G was telling the truth when he insisted that he was ready. Kensi and Dominic, who'd accepted his role of Special Agent in Charge without complaint, even if they did tend to bitch behind his back about his methods.

This place, he realized, was his home. These people had become his family. And he wouldn't change that for the world. Not even for Bruce.

"I'm already home," he said, quietly, and Bruce nodded after a moment.

"Babs is pushing me to take on another kid," he said, finally, and G felt a grin break out over his face.

"Oh, yeah?" he said. "This one a circus performer, too?"

"Kid's a genius," Bruce told him. "Loves the job. But he hates the suit."

"I designed that suit," G said in mock indignation.

"I figured you might want this," Bruce said, suddenly, pulling something out of his jacket pocket and letting it fall to the desk.

G picked up the torn scrap of cloth, turning it over to reveal a stylized R stitched on the front. There were specks of dried blood on the front, although they were fainter than he remembered, like someone had tried to wash them out. G felt tears choking him as he closed his fist over the piece of his past, protectively.

"Thank you," was all he could say.

"This, too," Bruce said, gruffly, the only show of emotion he'd allow himself. He handed G a cell phone, and G pocketed it with a nod of thanks.

"It's got a direct line to me, or Babs, or Alfred," Bruce told him. "If you ever need us-"

"Ditto," G replied, quietly.

There was an awkward silence for several seconds, and then Bruce jerked his head toward the door.

"I need to get going," he said, and G nodded.

Standing, he went around the desk and clasped the other man in a hard hug, feeling Bruce's arms come around him just as hard in return.

"Take care of yourself, Dick," Bruce said, gruffly, and then he turned and away.

"So, what was that all about?" Sam asked, after Bruce had left. "You know that guy?"

"We have…history," G answered, slowly, and a smirk spread over his partner's face.

"History, huh?" he said, knowingly, and G just shook his head in exasperation. "So, if you two have _history_," Sam said, putting unnecessary emphasis on the word, "does that mean he knows your first name?"

G groaned at the old, familiar argument.

"Aren't you ever going to give up on that?" he demanded.

"Nope," came the answer. "Come on, man. You can't keep it a secret forever. What's the G stand for?"

G almost didn't answer, but then, looking down at the torn piece of cloth in his hands, decided to reclaim a little more of his past.

"Grayson," he answered, softly. "My name is Grayson."


End file.
